The Tricolor Ribbon
by altenprano
Summary: 1916. Tom Branson is returning to Ireland to take part in the imminent revolution. Sybil Crawley is an Englishwoman coming to study nursing in Dublin. As Ireland prepares herself to be liberated from the British, Sybil finds herself caught up in what will become the Easter Rising, and Tom finds himself torn between the woman he loves and his country.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Downton Abbey.**

* * *

The young man stood at the prow, holding on to the cold, metal rail as the ferry ploughed through choppy waves towards the docks of Kingstown.

The Irish coast was just coming into view, rising from the Irish Sea like the spines of a sea-dragon. The ferry was too far out to see the silhouettes of the Dublin Mountains against Ireland's perpetual grey skies, and it was too far south to see the mouth of the River Liffey, but the young man knew it would only be a matter of hours before he saw these familiar sights.

He was glad to be home, after several years spent in England helping his older brother in his garage. He'd finally heard from one of the many newspapers he'd applied to, in hopes that one of them would take him on, which would give him an excuse to return to Ireland, and in a few days he would be starting as a journalist in Dublin.

"Mind if I join you?"

The voice that interrupted the silence of the ferry crossing was of the sort that he had grown accustomed to during his time in England—that was to say it had the distinct softness and levelness that belonged to an Englishman with an exceptional education, usually part of the upper class. It was the kind of voice that most men like him would shrug off, ignore or even disobey if it seemed alright, but the young man saw no reason not to acknowledge the speaker.

"Not at all, no," said he, glancing to his side, if only to assess whether or not he would have to give up his position on the brow.

She was only a few inches shorter than he, with dark hair beneath an elegant, yet astoundingly practical hat—a derby with a half-rosette of ribbon tucked against the side. Beneath the brim of her hat, a pair of blue eyes with the inquisitive glimmer of a child who was seeing something for the first time looked at the young man.

"Are you going home?" she asked, lowering her gaze so at least she didn't seem more intent on him.

He could see the thought run through her head— _it's rude to stare_ —and sure enough, he caught a flush of color in her cheeks. "I am," he answered. "And what about yourself?"

She met his eyes, and he could see her blush fade until it was just a faint rose tint in her cheeks. "I'm staying with a friend in Dublin while I take a course in nursing at the College of Surgeons."

"Do you plan to help with the war effort then?" This he said with a hint of disdain—he didn't mean to, it just happened—and when he realized this, the young man prayed that she thought nothing of it.

"I suppose so," she said, her gaze drifting towards the approaching coast. "What's Dublin like?"

"Oh it's grand, miss," he told her, following her line of sight. The coast was much closer now, and he felt a twang of homesickness in his chest. "There's plenty of great theaters and galleries, and the Phoenix Park is a good place for a picnic, though perhaps you'd like St. Stephen's Green more."

She smiled, and her cheeks flushed red again. "I'm a little nervous," she admitted. "It's silly, really, but I've never been out of England before, except to visit family in Scotland, but that's hardly as much of a journey as this is."

"I was much the same when I came to England," he said. "But you'll do fine, I'm sure miss. You seem very capable."

The blush remained. "Thank you, Mr….?"

"Tom," he supplied, then, "Tom Branson."

"Thank you Mr. Branson," said she, her eyes lighting up and a smile blossoming across her face. "I'm Sybil Crawley."

"It's a pleasure to meet you Miss Crawley."

"And you too, Mr. Branson." Sybil threw her head back, letting the wind off the waves rush around her elegant neck— _Like the neck of a swan_ , Tom thought, trying his hardest not to stare, trying to shake the thought and the others like it that kept creeping up on him. "Welcome home, I guess."

"And welcome to Ireland, Miss Crawley," said he, stifling a laugh as pushed the wind sea spray into Sybil's face and she flinched. "Best of luck to you with your studies."

"Thank you." She dabbed at the seawater with a handkerchief. "I should be getting back inside…it's a bit chilly, I'm afraid. Good day to you, Mr. Branson."

He smiled. "The same to you, Miss Crawley."

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for reading! Please leave a review, let me know what you think- you know how it goes.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: So here's the second chapter, I hope you enjoy it!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Downton Abbey. I really only own Eoin, Mrs. McAleavey, and Seán.**

* * *

Tom's cousin had recommended he find rooms at a lodging house on Middle Gardiner Street, the address for which he enclosed in a letter that arrived a week before Tom was to leave Liverpool.

 _I stayed there myself until I met my dear Isibéal_ , his cousin wrote, _and I am sure that you'll find that it suits you. The occupants are mostly men of various professions, with a family of three living upstairs, but they shouldn't be of any bother. Mrs._ _McAleavey's from Belfast but she's a good sort. She's got four sons, all out of the house (one is on scholarship at St. Enda's, something she's very proud of), and a daughter who helps her around the house._

 _There's bound to be room for you, either in a room by yourself, or sharing with another tenant, which is the cheaper way to go if you ask me. I know you don't mind sharing, and I also know that you can sleep anywhere (you would have to, to get any sleep at all in Liverpool, I suppose), so I don't see this as being of any trouble._

 _Once you get settled (you will write me when you're settled in, I hope), I'd love to meet you for a pint, before Isibéal starts insisting you come over for tea or something more formal. It'd be good for us two to catch up, especially with all there is to discuss, not just with the war in Europe, but the motions that're being made here. I can't even begin to describe it to you, Tom, what people are saying, which is why I'll leave it for when we see each other next._

 _\- Eoin_

Indeed, Tom was able to find lodgings at the address his cousin had provided, and, after a brief interview with Mrs. McAleavey, during which rent, expectations, and the minutiae of meals, laundry, post and baths were discussed, he was shown to his room.

"I'll hope y'don't mind sharing now," Mrs. McAleavey said as she paused before the door. "He's a sound boy, just finished his schooling and is working as a copy boy for some paper on Abbey Street, I think he said."

"I don't mind at all," Tom assured her, smiling. "I'm sure we'll get along just fine."

The woman regarded him for a moment before knocking softly on the door. "Are you in Seán?"

There was a pause, and then a young man who Tom could only assume to be Seán opened the door. "Is everything alright Mrs. McAleavey?" he asked.

"Seán, this is Mr. Branson. He'll be sharing a room with him until there's a possibility that other arrangements might be made."

Seán nodded. "Right then," said he, opening the door to allow Tom and the landlady through. "He'll need a cot though, seeing as there's no sofa and I've the one bed."

"I'll have Mr. Kelly bring one down from the attic," Mrs. McAleavey was quick to say. "You help Mr. Branson settle himself in for now." And with that she was gone.

Tom soon found that he was fond of Seán O'Toole, who spoke with an accent that Tom couldn't place until Seán informed him that he was from Ballina, in County Mayo, where his parents lived with his siblings, five of which were older than he, with three younger. He was the first of the family to leave the county, not counting his brother Harry—the second eldest—who had gone to join the British Army at the start of the war, but he didn't think he would be the only one of his siblings to come to Dublin.

"My sister Ada's got high marks in school, so does my brother Liam," Seán told Tom once Mr. Kelly had brought in a cot from the attic and Emílie, Mr. Kelly's wife, followed in with bedclothes and a couple of quilts. "Liam got a scholarship to Mr. Pearse's school, the one Mrs. McAleavey's got a boy at now, and started last term."

"All the best to you," Tom said, offering Seán the remaining half of a pastry he'd bought before coming to Middle Gardiner Street.

The young man shook his head. "No thank you," said he. "What of yourself Mr. Branson? What brings you to Dublin?"

"Call me Tom, please." Tom wrapped the pastry in the paper and put it away, making a note not to forget about it, lest it attract mice. "I've been taken on as a reporter by the _Irish Independent_ , actually, though I hope it'll only be until I'm properly on my feet in the reporting world."

"Then you'll freelance?"

Tom shrugged. "I might, I might not," he said. "It depends on if the _Socialist_ will have me or not."

"Well you won't find yourself at a loss for a story in the meanwhile, trust me."

"And why do you say that, Seán?"

The younger man stuck his hands in his pocket and shrugged. "Well it's hard not to have heard about O'Donovan Rossa's funeral at this point," he said. "Mr. Pearse gave quite the oration, he did."

Tom nodded. He remembered reading of O'Donovan Rossa's funeral in the paper, and later, hearing his brother's sister-in-law recall the whole affair when she came to visit a week later.

"The speech was grand, just the sort of thing you'd expect from a man like Pearse for a man like O'Donovan Rossa was," Beth McCleary had told them once it was just the adults and their glasses of whiskey. "But the last part, now that's what I'll never forget as long as I live, and I'm sure England won't either."

Yes, the last portion of Pearse's speech had been unforgettable indeed.

It began by challenging England.

"They think that they have pacified Ireland. They think that they have purchased half of us and intimidated the other half. They think that they have foreseen everything, think that they have provided against everything," Pearse had said, already quickening something in the hearts of the gathered Irish, but it would be his next phrase that stirred the people. "But the fools, the fools, the fools! - they have left us our Fenian dead, and while Ireland holds these graves, Ireland unfree shall never be at peace."

As soon as he heard these words, Tom knew that the time for Ireland's freedom was near. Just as the death of Jean Lamarque had sparked the 1832 June Rebellion in France, so would O'Donovan Rossa's death spur the Irish people into a revolutionary frenzy. The timing couldn't have been better, with Britain occupied with fighting a war in Europe, a war that didn't look like it would end anytime in the next eighteen months, and the threat of conscription hanging over the young, fighting men of Ireland like a guillotine.

"And I'm not sure, but word is there's going to be a Rising soon." Seán's eyes lit up, the way any boy's did when there was talk of war, or proving oneself, and a wicked grin.

"I heard something like that on the way here, yes."

A young man returning to Ireland from London had told him on the way over, not long after they'd left Liverpool. He'd added in his pleasant Cork voice that he was going to keep books for Count Plunkett, whose son was part of the group organizing things, so he might do some fighting himself.

"Is that why you came back to Ireland? To fight in the Rising?"

Tom shrugged. "I might, I might not," he said again. He knew his cousin Eoin was probably going to join the Volunteer Army or the Citizen Army, if he wasn't with one of them already, because his da—Tom's uncle—was an IRB man. "It depends. Someone'll have to report on it, I suppose. What of yourself? What'll you do?"

"Same as you, mate," Seán said with a quick shrug of his own. "I might join up, might not. I don't know."

"Well, take care of yourself until then, Seán," Tom told the younger man. "It's your choice, don't let anyone take it from you."

"I won't," Seán said solemnly, though the light was still there in his eyes, burning as bright as ever. "Just warning you, Mrs. McAleavey doesn't like this sort of talk at her table, especially not around her daughter or Mrs. Kelly's little girl."

"Thanks for that warning," Tom said, silently glad for Mrs. McAleavey's rule.

Politics were always a touchy subject, and had enormous potential to fracture households and jeopardize even the strongest ties. The news from the Western Front was especially frightening, full of the grotesque images of the trenches and fields in France littered with bodies, the gas and shells that battered both sides—none of it had no place at a table, never mind in front of women and children.

"No worries. Now come along, why don't you? Supper's almost ready, and I'd get there early if I were you, while it's warm."

* * *

 **A/N: I hope you enjoyed this installment of "The Tricolor Ribbon" (formally of a longer title), and I hope that you'll take the time to review my work. It would mean a whole lot to me if you did.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you all for your support of this fic.**

 **If you were not previously aware, 2016 will be the 100th anniversary of the Easter Rising, which is in part why I am choosing to write and publish this fic when I am.**

 **That said, I hope you** **enjoy this chapter. Thank you!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Downton Abbey.**

* * *

Two weeks later saw Tom happily settled in Dublin and content with his job at the _Irish Independent_ , where he'd made a few friends since his arrival.

There was, of course, Seán O'Toole, who made it a habit to walk or take the tram to work with Tom, something that the older man didn't mind at all. Rather, Tom enjoyed Seán's company, and he enjoyed listening to the seemingly endless stream of stories that the boy picked up from around the Independent's offices. Sometimes, Seán would talk about his sweetheart, a young seamstress at the Abbey Theater, and once, he asked Tom if he had a sweetheart, at which Tom shook his head.

Back in England, Tom had courted a number of young women, all lovely, clever creatures who didn't seem to mind his poor salary or his evident disdain of young men who ran off to fight in the war.

"I just don't see why they're so quick to throw away their lives like that," he'd say if the girl he was with asked why he expressed such disdain for England's brave boys. "There's nothing heroic about it."

Indeed, there wasn't. Two years into the war, and everyone in Britain was convinced that it could end any day now; they wanted to end, before the body count rose any higher. The number of injured soldiers returning from the Western Front, missing arms and legs, blind, or with damaged lungs from gas, was climbing every day; the numbers of those dead or missing in action were even higher.

Tom couldn't see how, after seeing or reading about these horrors, young men with promising lives ahead of them, with sweethearts or young wives, could leave that safety and go join the British Army.

"For King and country," was the reason touted by many young men of twenty, many of whom lived with their fathers' civilized retelling of war, where wars were fought with rifles and spies.

This war was no different, though there were a few new elements at play this time around, the most frightening of all being the trenches.

It was difficult for Tom to wrap his head around the idea of miles-long trenches dug across the French countryside, through farmers' fields and villages, fortified with wood and sandbags, and protected by miles of barbed wire. When customers remarked to Tom's brother Kieran of the conditions that their loved ones wrote home about, especially in the wintertime, Tom couldn't help but be horrified.

"You won't find me out there," he told his brother one evening, once they'd closed up for the day, to which Kieran cracked a wry and smile and replied:

"Of course not, Tommy boy. You've too much sense, and you'd rather be fightin' for Ireland, wouldn't you?"

As he walked up Abbey Street each morning with young Seán O'Toole, Tom couldn't help but think that his brother might be right.

According to his cousin Eoin, the Irish Citizen Army and the Irish Volunteer Army (those who hadn't followed John Redmond to France, that is), were waiting for the British to enforce conscription in Ireland. Such a movement by Parliament could happen any day now, the way the war was going on the Continent, and when it did, Eoin said the people of Ireland—Protestants and Catholics alike—would rise to the occasion and help to procure Ireland's freedom. Lloyd George had already postponed Home Rule at the start of the war, and many—Eoin included—were skeptical that the Prime Minister would consider it after the war was over, no matter how many Irish men gave their service (and lives) to King and country during the war.

"It just won't happen," Eoin remarked when he met Tom for a drink at the Oval Bar, not far from the offices of the _Irish Independent_ , a week after Tom's return to Ireland. "They said we'd be out by Christmastime in '14, but we aren't, are we, and we won't be for some time."

"I know," Tom replied, taking another sip from his pint of stout—oh, how he'd missed stout in Liverpool, as Kieran detested the stuff and only kept whiskey in the cupboard in their apartment above the garage! "But you don't know that, hm?"

"Careful now Tom—y'sound like them, you do," his cousin warned, grinning—as he always did—to assure Tom that he meant the jab in good faith. "Four years in England hasn't changed you that much, I hope?"

"Come on Eoin, you know it takes more than that to change me."

"You're an old man set in your ways, I know." Eoin scoffed and finished off his pint—his second—with a grin. "Tell me, how are you finding Dublin?"

"Well I suppose," Tom answered, shrugging. "How's Isibéal?"

"I'm not lettin' you off easy now." Eoin made a swipe at Tom's shoulder. "Found a sweetheart to chase after?"

"Och," Tom muttered, and returned Eoin's blow with one of his own.

What ensued was the playful, affectionate fighting of young men. When they were younger, Kieran and their other male cousins would join in too, and roughhouse until Tom's mother told the boys to clean themselves up for dinner. It would happen out of the blue when they were younger—boys being boys and all—but as they got closer to being men, these playful tussles seemed to coincide with the proximity of the local girls, though they outgrew this phase as well. Now the play-fights were kept to the presence of family members or close friends at the pub.

"Come on Tom—you've always had a way with women. You said so yourself, you had a few birds in England. Any lucky girls in Dublin yet?"

Tom rubbed his shoulder, which was beginning to smart from Eoin's playful jabs, and shook his head. "Not yet," he told his cousin. "I've been here a week, haven't I? And isn't there about to be a rising, or is that all copy boy gossip?"

"Oh there's going to be a rising all right, no question of it," Eoin said, settling down, sobering up (in manner if not in earnest). "Why, are you interested in joining the Volunteer Army? I thought you weren't a fighter now."

"Not for England's wars I'm not," Tom answered. "But I grew up listening to Uncle Liam's stories the same as you did Eoin, about the men of '67 and '98 and the United Irishmen and their lot."

"Go way, Tom Branson, y'hear? The Volunteer Army's no place for romantics such as yourself."

Tom finished the last of his stout in a single gulp. "Then what're Pearse and Plunkett, Eoin?" he challenged, his eye glimmering with a tricky light. "Poets. Scholars. _Romantics_. And from what you've told me and what I've read, they're running this show."

"There's more to it than that."

"Really?" Tom grinned. He could see that his cousin was getting the slightest bit flustered—something that happened rarely enough when they were boys, even less so now that they were grown, and Eoin almost three years older—and he reveled in his brief victory. "I've been meaning to interview Mr. Pearse about his lovely school— _Scoil_ _Éanna_ , am I right?—for a bit in the _Independent_ I'm working on about secondary education in Ireland. Maybe I'll be able to get in a word with him about the Volunteers."

"Tom, you can't be serious."

"At least I'm not asking John Redmond when the next boat for France is, cousin," Tom said, putting a crown piece by his glass before collecting his hat and coat. "It's my shout, but I've an early morning tomorrow. Good night to you, Eoin. Stay out of trouble now."

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!**

 **For those of you who might be wondering where our darling Miss Sybil Crawley is, never fear! We'll be seeing more of her in a couple chapters, and then she'll become a more regular occurrence (much to Eoin's dismay at times) in the narrative.**

 **If you have any questions, comments, concerts, praise, or criticisms on how I am writing this chapter in Ireland's history, or just want to pop in and say "hi" and leave your thoughts on the piece as it comes along, feel free to do so!**


	4. Chapter 4

When Tom boarded the tram for Rathfarnham, he did so with the intention to write an article on secondary education in Ireland with a certain focus on St. Enda's, which had distinguished itself from others of its kind as being an institution that instructed its students in Irish as well as English.

When he met Patrick Pearse, however, Tom felt his article shift its direction away from focusing on education to focusing on the man who met him in the thoughtfully furnished parlor.

At first, Tom wasn't sure what to make of the headmaster of St. Enda's. Both Tom and Pearse were of the same sturdy build, though Tom stood a few inches taller than the other. It wasn't until Pearse turned his head to see who had entered the parlor (his mother, Mrs. Margaret Pearse), and Tom saw the man in profile, that he felt something stir in his heart.

From their earlier conversation (and from asking around here and there), Tom had learned an interesting thing or two about the man now sitting before him. First, Pearse had joined the Gaelic League at sixteen years old and became the editor of its newspaper at twenty-three. Second, like every boy, Pearse had a few heroes. As a child, those heroes had been the likes of Cúchulainn and the Fianna, now, they were said to be Robert Emmet (who had been beheaded on the very grounds of the school) and Theobald Wolfe Tone. Third, Pearse was a notorious orator, as evidenced by his speech at Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa's funeral in 1915. No doubt that had brought him to the attention of the British administration in Dublin Castle, and if not…well they had another thing coming, even Tom saw that.

These were the facts, the thirty-something headmaster looking at him head-on, answering his questions as if he was used to it (which he probably was, now that Tom thought about it). That was Patrick Pearse who attended University College Dublin and enrolled as a Barrister-at-Law at the King's Inns. It was the Patrick Pearse made up of family members' names and addresses and degrees and silly little facts that someday would be forgotten entirely.

When the anthology of facts that bore the name Patrick Pearse turned his head, Tom saw what could not be captured in names, addresses, degrees—no amount of information could paint a portrait of this man.

 _That's what you came here to do_ , Tom realized, beginning to write everything down.

How Pearse looked in profile, how his heart quivered in the anticipation of something that Tom couldn't name (this would not make the article, but he would remember it as he wrote), and how Pearse seemed to wear the air about him as if he was born into it. Tom had to get it all down on paper before the moment passed and that perfect portrait of Patrick Pearse, headmaster, poet, lawyer, teacher, and perhaps Irish Republican, was lost forever.

* * *

 **A/N: So this was a short chapter, I know, but there is a method to my madness, I assure you (and we will be seeing Sybil next chapter, I think that's a safe promise for me to make).**

 **I just wanted to give a quick sketch of Patrick Pearse because he and several others will be important in the later part of this fic, and it would be unfair to Pearse and the others if I waited until I get to the actual Rising to introduce them, seeing as they did actually have lives other than the Rising (I mean, I never learned that Pearse was a poet or a teacher...I thought Yeats just decided that it fit in with the meter of Easter 1916, which I highly recommend, by the way).**

 **Anyways, that's all for now, maybe more this week, we'll see.**

 **thank you so much and if you liked it, please feel free to leave a review, let me know what I am doing right, what you want more of, or where I can improve.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Downton Abbey_ , nor do I have any idea who the editor-in-chief of the _Irish Independent_ was in 1916, so I made up a fellow of my own to fill that post for my own purposes. **

* * *

"We can't publish this, Mr. Branson," said Mr. Swift, the _Irish Independent's_ editor-in-chief, once he was done reading Tom's article about Mr. Pearse. He handed the typed copy back to its author. "You know why, so don't bother asking."

Tom took the paper and nodded. "I do Mr. Swift," said he, his heart sinking a little. "My apologies."

"You are aware of this paper's values, I hope?"

Again, Tom nodded. "I am." He glanced down at the article he'd so painstakingly composed after his meeting with Mr. Pearse. "There's nothing that goes against the values of the _Independent_ in here, I made sure of it."

"You were asked to write about the state of secondary education in Ireland, Mr. Branson," Mr. Swift said, shaking his head. "For once in your writing career, Mr. Branson, I am asking you to tell me, not show me, the secondary education system here, am I understood?"

Tom swallowed. "Yes sir."

A smug smile appeared across Mr. Swift's lips—Tom had a feeling it would not be the last one the man gave him. "Good," said the _Independent's_ editor-in-chief. "I'm glad we were able to reach an understanding about this, and I trust that it will not happen again."

"No sir, it won't happen again."

"Splendid. You may go now, Mr. Branson." Mr. Swift still wore a ghost of that smug smile of his, as if to say _, I'm editor-in-chief. I can pretty much do as I please and you can't do a thing about it._ "Good day."

"Good day," Tom said, and with that he left Mr. Swift's office, doing his best to swallow the disappointment and quite anger that had been stirred up by his conversation with the editor-in-chief, so his colleagues wouldn't take notice and bother him about it.

He had no desire to relive that conversation just so it could join the rumor mills of Dublin, thank you very much, and so the less his fellow journalists knew about it, the better.

Would he go agonize about it in some pub with his cousin?

Tom hated to admit it, but such a thing was likely to happen. Eoin and his wife, Isibéal, both had a good sense of when something was wrong with someone, and Eoin was relentless when it came to getting the truth out of Tom. There was no way Tom could lie to his cousin about something like this, not to mention that Eoin would find out sooner or later as it was. Better to tell him, and vent his anger over a few pints.

Seán would find out as well. After all, the lad did share a room with Tom, and copy boys knew more than anyone ever gave them credit for. They passed unseen throughout the newspaper's offices, and so no doubt word had already gotten back to Seán about the telling-off that Tom had gotten from Mr. Swift.

"Tom, there you are!" Seán was waiting at Tom's workspace, clearly struggling to keep still. "There's someone here to see you."

Tom furrowed his brow. "Someone to see me?"

Seán nodded. "They've got her waiting in one of our spare offices, when you've got a moment."

 _Her?_ "Well I'm not doing anything pressing at the moment."

"Shall I take you to see her then?"

Tom shrugged. "Don't see why not." _It's not like today can get any worse, can it?_ "Did she say why she's here?"

"Says she read one of your articles and wanted to talk with you about it." It was Seán's turn to shrug. "Beyond me what she really wants."

Tom gave Seán a skeptical look. "And what do you mean by that?"

"Oh nothing," said the copy boy. "Only, she's very pretty, with a posh accent, you know the type. Daughter of the Ascendency and all that."

"That's enough Seán," Tom scolded, though he couldn't help but smile at the younger man's nerve. "Just show me to her and that'll be all for now."

* * *

 **A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I think I said in the last Author's Note that Sybil would be in this chapter, but now she's going to be in the next one- Hurrah!**

 **Anyways, thank you for reading, and, as always, reviews and general commentary are much appreciated!**


	6. Chapter 6

"Sorry to keep you waiting ma'am," Tom said as he entered the spare office after sending Seán to bring the visitor a cup of tea. "I…"

His words caught in his throat as he met the dark blue eyes of the young woman who sat in a chair near the empty hat stand. Her slender, fair hands were folded atop a book in her lap and her dark hair was tucked under the brim of that smart hat of hers, just as it had been when they met.

 _Snap out of it, won't you?_

Her eyes lit up, and her lips spread into a smile. "Mr. Branson," she said, rising from her seat as he closed the door behind him. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

He shook his head. "You're not, Miss Crawley," he assured her, burying the sting of disappointment after his talk with Mr. Swift so that it wouldn't show on his face. "What can I help you with?"

"Well I read an article of yours in the _Independent_ last week, about votes for women, and I was wondering if you'd answer a few questions for me."

"I'll do my best, Miss Crawley." Tom felt heat rise in his cheeks a little. Never before had someone cared to come and ask him about his articles—not even his cousins on his mother's side of the family, whose curious streak ran a mile wide, ever thought to ask him. "You haven't given up nursing to become a reporter, have you?"

She laughed, and a pleasant, rosy blush crept across her cheeks. "Please," said she. "Call me Sybil."

He acknowledged her with a brisk nod. "If you insist," he said. "In which case, please, Miss…Sybil, call me Tom."

She grinned. "I will." The blush in her cheeks deepened, and her lips curled into a smile. "So tell me, what do you think about women having the vote?"

Tom couldn't help but laugh. "It's all there in the article," he told her, taking a seat in a nearby chair just as Seán returned with two cups of tea. "I think women should have the vote, the same as men do."

"But surely there's more," Sybil said, accepting her cup of tea from Seán with a polite smile. "From what I've read, and from what a few of the women at the College of Surgeons say, you're a bit of a liberal—perhaps I'd go so far as to say a revolutionary."

Seán, who was hovering in the doorway in the usual fashion of copy boys with nothing better to do, perked up at Sybil's words. "Mr. Branson's a liberal all right, miss," he said with a laugh. "A liberal of the safest sort."

Tom sighed. "Come on Seán," he said, trying to give off the air of good humor, even if his friend was teasing him in a most vicious manner. "I read Connolly, don't I? And haven't I stuck my neck out enough with my articles?"

"Aye you do, and sure you have," came Seán's reply. "But you aren't part of the Citizen's Army, are you now, hm?"

"Seán, not now," Tom pleaded, deciding that the only way to avoid a scene in front of Sybil was to back down. "We can settle this later, but not in front of Miss Crawley. Surely she's got to be somewhere soon and I don't want to be wasting her time just because you want to debate with me."

Seán glanced at Sybil, and then back at Tom, and Tom knew he could anticipate further questioning later that evening, though not about his politics. "Alright then," he finally said. "Later it is, but I'm not lettin' you off easy, Mr. Branson."

"I wouldn't expect anything less," came Tom's reply, and he made a quick shooing motion with his hand. "Off with you now."

And Seán left, letting the door swing shut behind him.

"I'm sorry about that," Tom told Sybil as soon as the copy boy was gone. "He's always up to something or other."

Sybil shrugged, and he could see a smile playing out across her lips. "It's alright," she said. "I'm not expected back for a while, so I have plenty of time."

"Who told you about me at the College of Surgeons?"

Tom was certain that he didn't know anyone working or taking classes there, so how would Sybil have heard of him? Of course, he hadn't been in Ireland for the last four years and he wasn't really the best at keeping in touch, so perhaps an old girlfriend of his or one of his cousins was now studying there, and he simply didn't know.

"Molly O'Donovan," Sybil answered. "I think she said she's your cousin's sister-in-law? Does that sound right?"

Tom nodded. "It does," he said. "I didn't know Molly was studying at the College."

"Oh, she isn't, but she stops in from time to time to lend a hand."

He couldn't help but smile. "She's a dear girl, isn't she?"

"She is, yes, and frightfully clever too!" Sybil smiled to herself. "Sometimes I see her with a group of older women—my teacher, Dr. Clery is one of them—always walking like soldiers, or at least something close, talking."

 _Could she be part of Cumman na mBan?_ Tom wondered, though he doubted it to be so.

Molly O'Donovan belonged to a family who tended to give politics a wide berth, though that didn't mean the women were as mild-mannered as the daughters of the Ascendency that they made dresses and ensembles for. Isibeál was proof enough of that, having courted Eoin—an unabashed Fenian—and held her own in an impromptu debate at the engagement party, and maybe that was part of why Eoin loved her so.

But her sister Molly?

No, Tom didn't think it possible that Molly, who was a sweet, doe-eyed girl of fourteen—eighteen now, he reminded himself—would join Cumman na mBan, the female counterpart to the Irish Volunteers and the Citizen Army. Nor was she the type who followed after other people, hanging on to every word and basking in each show of attention.

"What does she say about me, then?" Tom asked Sybil, abandoning all worry over his cousin for the moment, though he knew he would have to ask Eoin the next time they saw each other, if only so the worry would go away. "Nothing that's made you think less of me, I hope."

"Quite the contrary," Sybil said, taking a sip of her tea, and managing not to grimace even though it was probably horribly over steeped, as tended to be the case with any cup of tea Seán made. "She speaks very highly of you and your politics."

"I'm honored," Tom said, taking a sip of his own tea and, despite his best efforts, grimacing at the taste. "If I remember properly, politics were the precise reason it took my cousin Eoin seven tries to get Mr. O'Donovan's blessing before he could marry Isibeál, Molly's older sister."

Sybil's eyes widened. "Seven tries?"

Tom nodded. "Seven tries," he confirmed. "Poor Eoin, he thought he'd never get a blessing."

"Oh my." Sybil glanced at her lap, and Tom realized that perhaps the epic tale of his cousin's courtship was too intimate for such a time and place.

It would be better if he saved that particular story for later—if there was a later, he reminded himself, and he sincerely doubted that there would be. He was unlikely to ever see Sybil again after this, and part of him was sad for that very reason.

He found that he enjoyed her company, and not in the way he had enjoyed the company of women in the last few years.

The last few years, it had all been about passing the time, or finding some sort of temporary relief from the homesickness that occasionally gripped him during his time in England. There were plenty of pretty, respectable, working-class women in Liverpool, and he was a handsome, respectable, working-class man, which always gave him options. Plenty of nights were spent at dances or walking through a park with a young woman on his arm, telling him about her family two streets over from the garage, or about her cousin who had gone to America (this was a more common topic among the young Irishwomen he'd courted, not so much the English ones), or something else that wasn't politics or the war.

The longest of these romances lasted a month, by which point Tom began feeling stifled in the embrace of a girl from the local post office, whose brother had just shipped off to France, making her none too friendly towards his stance on the war. There had been some bickering—there always was bickering when it was time to part ways—and in the aftermath of this particular split, Tom realized that he would never be able to be happy with a woman he couldn't talk politics with.

With Sybil, Tom felt comfortable talking about his politics. The fact that she was English, and, as most English were, Protestant, meant nothing to him. Her sex meant nothing—that something as trivial as her sex dictated her intelligence was, quite frankly, absurd in this day and age.

Nothing mattered at all, because he felt he could sit across from her and speak his mind. He did not feel that Sybil would judge him, not before she tried to understand why his opinions were what they were.

Tom didn't want to do all of the talking though. He wanted to listen to her, and see what she had to say. She was, without question, his equal—he knew that just from the first few moments of their exchange on the boat, though only now did he fully realize it—and her opinions counted every bit as much as his.

Tom wanted to understand her, and the world she came from, why they thought the way they did about everything.

He'd been raised to know the English—especially the aristocracy—as a people who looked down their noses at the neighboring Irish, who had never done a thing in the world to deserve the scorn they received from time to time. It was always better to yield to an Englishman than to state your case in the middle of the lane, his gran always told him, spitting out the word "Englishman" with as much contempt as some folks in Liverpool said "Irishman" when giving a description of the best garage in the neighborhood.

He wondered if that was how Sybil saw him, a dirty, uncivilized brute who was good for a song or a laugh and maybe some cheap labor, but not much else.

He wouldn't deny that he had first seen her the same way Seán had—a posh, no doubt ridiculously wealthy, Englishwoman who was trying out nursing just for a laugh and would be telling all her friends back home about her visit to Ireland as if it was some horrifying mistake.

Having met Sybil twice now, however, Tom found it hard to fit her into that mold, even in the slightest sense.

Was she posh? Well, her accent was clearly one that spoke of a good education, and her manners were without parallel. Her dress of simple dark-grey cotton with a sensible "gut-in-one" collar could not belie the privilege of her upbringing, though perhaps it did speak to how seriously she took her studies. There was no way to tell what she would tell her friends when she returned to England, about whether or not Ireland had been a mistake, though Tom was certain of her good character enough that he would wager a good sum on her giving Dublin a glowing report when it came time for her to leave.

When it came time for her to leave…

Tom tried to shake off the sudden melancholy that came with that realization, that Sybil would finish her studies someday and return to England. He had no right, really, and to be upset over such a thing, why, it was rather silly of him, anyone would agree.

People moved on, he knew that, and it wasn't as if they were involved with each other in any way besides business.

"Would you like to go for dinner sometime?" he blurted out, unsure of where the thought had come from, and for the most part, thoroughly alarmed at its utterance.

Sybil looked at him— _Dear Lord_ , he thought, marveling at the color of her eyes, the way they shone with such kindness and intelligence—and it felt like an eternity before she gave a reply. "I would love to, Tom," she said, her voice suddenly stirring to life a whole meadow's worth of butterflies in Tom's stomach. "Did you have anywhere in mind?"

"Eh…" Tom froze. The butterflies flew in furious loops around his stomach as he tried to think of a place where he could take her for dinner. "How about Wynn's Hotel on Lower Abbey Street?"

It would most likely set him back a good bit, but he was willing to forgo purchasing any new books for a while, and Mrs. McAleavey would understand if his rent came a tad bit late.

"Wynn's Hotel it is," Sybil said, her eyes brightening. "Does this Sunday work for you?"

"It should, yes," Tom answered, making sure to keep that evening free. "I'll fetch you at seven?"

It was what her sort was used to, wasn't it, being picked up at their home by a gentleman caller (as Tom now supposed he was)?

"Sounds perfect." She fumbled in her coat pocket for a slim notebook and pen, opened to a clean page, and wrote something down before tearing the paper out and handing it to him. "My friend's address."

He took the paper and glanced at the address, which really shouldn't have been a surprise. Of course she was staying in one of the Georgian squares—in this case Merrion Square, near Trinity College and Dublin Castle—he shouldn't have expected anything different. "Seven it is," he said, tucking the piece of paper in his jacket pocket.

"Don't worry about the reservation," she told him. "Let me handle that much, please."

"If you insist."

"And I do." She grinned. "I look forward to talking with you over dinner, Mr. Branson."

"As do I."

They were back to the dance of titles and polite conversation, though there was no coldness to it, as Tom usually found in such was an undercurrent of teasing, as if she was poking fun at her own class's behavior towards one another, and he couldn't help but find some humor in it too, though he couldn't exactly name why.

Oddly enough, it didn't matter.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!**

 **Reviews are welcome- it's always good for me to know what I'm doing wrong, right, etc. If I make a historical error, do feel free to leave me a note so I may go forward with the error corrected.**

 **Thank you!**


	7. Chapter 7

Sunday came much more quickly than Tom expected, perhaps because he had little else to do in between, besides write an article that Mr. Swift would actually approve of publishing in the Independent, which would thus ensure that Tom would continue to remain in the employ of the paper.

Or maybe it had to do with the fact that the idea of dinner with Sybil continued to haunt him.

Had it been a wise choice, to ask her to dinner, when she was a stranger and clearly of a different sort than Tom? Or was it a mistake, too forward of a gesture for a man of Tom's standing to be making towards a lady of Sybil's?

Whatever the case, there was no going back now, as Tom knew he was expected to pick Sybil up at her friend's Merrion Square address in less than an hour, and it would be wrong of him to stand her up. No, he was supposed to be a gentleman, and he was going to behave as a gentleman ought to behave.

"Where're you off to then?" Seán asked when he came home (no doubt from seeing the lass he claimed to have up by the Mater Hospital) to find Tom fussing with his jacket in front of the small mirror that the two men shared.

In his attempt to look presentable (and in the absence of a proper dinner jacket), Tom had donned his best jacket, in hopes that, in combination with a freshly-starched collar—courtesy of Mrs. MacAleavey—would make up for his lack of proper attire. He took care to make sure his hair was properly combed and that his boots were clean and for the most part devoid of scuff marks.

When Seán returned, Tom's attention left his reflection for a brief second, long enough for the man to reply, "Dinner," and return to his fussing, which didn't last for much longer, as he had other things on his mind. "Seán, do I look decent?"

"I don't know a moment when you don't look decent, Tom," came Seán's reply, and the young man grinned. "Even when you've just woken up, you manage to look decent."

"That's not what I mean."

"Then what is it you mean, hm?" It was a while before Seán's eyes lit up. "Oh! You're off to see a girl, aren't you? Who is it? Wait—don't tell me! Is it-"

Tom cut him off. "No," he said, adjusting his tie for what felt like the hundredth time. "It's for work."

Yes, there was a safe lie. He was meeting with Sybil Crawley so the could continue their discussion of current affairs, and not because he found himself inexplicably drawn to the young woman.

Inexplicably drawn—what on earth did that mean?

Did he find Sybil Crawley attractive? Of course he did—who wouldn't? She was very well turned-out, as daughters of the Ascendency and her sort tended to be, her features were gentle, and her manner was kind. How could he not be drawn to her? How could anyone not be drawn to her? She had a personality that made you want to like her, or love her, even, so no, Tom was not "inexplicably drawn" to the nursing student. There was some reason behind it, as there always was, and for him to state he was inexplicably drawn…Well, where was the sense in that?

"You're meeting a girl for work?" There was no mistaking the skepticism in Seán's voice. "Come on Tom, tell me it ain't so. Tell me you're not seeing a girl for work."

Doing his best to follow through with sincerity, Tom nodded. "I'm afraid I am, Seán," he said, running the comb through his hair again.

"Where's it that you're meeting her then?"

Tom hesitated. "I'm not sure," he said, glancing at the small clock Seán kept on a nearby dresser. "But I ought to be going. She'll be expecting me."

"Alright then," Seán said, pulling off his boots and beginning to undo the buttons of his vest. "I want to hear all about this article that you're writing, that you need to interview a woman on a Sunday."


End file.
